


The Scarlet Wolf

by Dorano1



Category: Ranger's Apprentice - John Flanagan
Genre: All the adventures, Backstory, F/M, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-04-05 05:26:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4167636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dorano1/pseuds/Dorano1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sir Rodney - one of the foremost knights in the realm and steadfast friend of Baron Arald. His nose has been broken in the past. His personal crest is a scarlet wolfshead on a white field. He was married and widowed, then marries again years later. This is all we know of Sir Rodney - but there is so much more to tell. Rated T just to be safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Suspicious Circumstances - Friends

Two boys - ten, perhaps eleven years old - were going at each other with wooden swords at the edge of the woods.

One of them was black-haired, strong-jawed and dark-eyed with a blindingly white grin that never wavered, even when his companion broke through his guard and smacked him with his wooden sword. The other had red blonde hair and blue eyes, with a face that would be handsome in a few more years. It was a face that was not unused to smiling, but it was set and serious now, steady and unflinching, jaw tightening into a grimace whenever the other boy landed a blow.

Both boys were dressed in simple clothes - peasant clothes, work clothes. Their hair was dirty from the falls they'd taken, the dark-haired boy had mud across his face, and the fair-haired one had a bruise forming on his cheekbone.

In the shadows of the trees, unfriendly eyes watched them sparring. Eyes belonging in heads that were attached to chests and shoulders and arms and hands that held spiked clubs and rusty daggers.

* * *

_One week earlier:_

Arald was wandering Castle Redmont again. He had no particular direction, no set destination. He was just...wandering. Getting to know the castle one might say, if Arald didn't know every inch of it by heart already. Some of the staff smiled and greeted him, others didn't. Normally, he'd have been making a nuisance of himself, but he was still shaking off the latest wave of melancholy that had hit him a few days earlier. They'd been coming at irregular intervals ever since his mother had died.

It had been a month ago. A fever, they said. Sickness. Perfectly natural, but nothing could be done, and a few days later the Lady Cynthia was dead. Arald was only eleven, but he knew enough about politics - and his older brother - that he had his doubts. Norton was a sly boy, handsome and charming enough that nobody suspected him of anything, but a cold snake underneath.

Arald hated him. Strongly.

But he was only eleven, and Norton was fifteen. Father - Baron Peyton - was utterly taken in by Norton's act, and would dismiss young Arald's accusations as the words of a grief-stricken young boy who didn't know what he was saying. Besides, then Norton might decide that Arald was a problem and he needed to be removed, just like mother.

Arald considered going to Ranger Pritchard, but the man was... _intimidating_. There was no other way to put it. He was _ancient_ (to an eleven-year-old boy at least), almost forty, and infinitely more skilled than Arald at...well, at everything.

 _Father could be next,_ a little voice whispered in his head. He didn't like that voice sometimes, especially when it was right and he didn't want it to be. Mother had called it a conscience. Arald supposed that fit.

It was his conscience that brought him back to his room. On impulse, he changed into simple clothes that his parents didn't know about, ones that wouldn't draw attention to him down in the village. Wearing these clothes, he discovered he was beneath notice in the castle. In the village, he was just another young boy, not the Baron's son who should by rights have an escort that would certainly get him noticed by Norton.

Well, most of the time.

As Arald neared the outskirts of the village, a gang of boys about his own age - but skinny and wiry instead of more traditionally bulky like Arald himself - formed a semicircle in front of him. Arald stopped, eyes flickering as he scanned through them all. Hungry, but not starving, he decided. More mean than desperate. That was good - or maybe not. Desperation could do strange things to people, but at least it gave them an obvious motive.

"'aven't seen you 'round here b'fore." The boy in the middle spoke, harsh curiosity gleaming in his eyes. He was a little older than Arald - twelve, at a guess. "You new?"

Arald, not in the mood but very aware of how badly this could end for him - _Norton had detailed it out often enough, when he was trying to terrify Arald into keeping quiet_ \- responded evenly. "Don't come 'round these parts of'n." He offered, trying to get the pattern of the other boys' speech down. He wasn't technically lying, just being selectively truthful.

"Yeah?" The group was closing in now, slowly and subtly (they thought) but surely. Arald tensed, eyes darting to keep them all in sight. "What's y' father do?" He asked, trying to get an idea of where the new boy stood in the pecking order of village boys.

 _He's the Baron of the fief and he'll throw you all in the dungeons if you so much as touch me_ , Arald thought, but he did not say it.

"Here, Tom, let 'im be. He ain't done anything to you." The leader ( _Tom_ ) - and the rest of the gang - turned to face the speaker, a tall boy with more classic-swordsman muscles and a wooden staff in one hand. Oak, Arald thought. He was holding the staff like a sword and tapping the point of it against his leg.

"Stay out of this, Ratty." Tom said, a sneer in his voice as he said the boy's name.

The boy, Ratty, rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap went the wooden rod.

"Got something to say, Ratty?"

Ratty raised an eyebrow. "Just that your mother's so ugly I saw the pigs running away in disgust." He retorted. Tom turned beet red and started forward, the majority of the gang backing off but two of them flanking Tom.

And presenting their jaws so very nicely to Arald, who punched one of them hard enough to knock him into Tom, sending him off balance. Tom cursed and stumbled, and Ratty's wooden rod whistled through the air to connect with Tom's side with a resounding _crack_ that sent Tom to his knees with a shriek. Then Tom's second crony was throwing a punch at Arald's head and he ducked, shoving his foe backwards. He tripped over his friend and hit the dirt, arms flailing.

Ratty's hand closed around Arald's wrist and pulled him along until the two boys were on the edge of the woods, where they stood panting until Arald recovered enough breath to speak.

"Thanks." He said with a nod. "I'm - "

"Yeah, you're Arald, I know. The Baron's son - you come down 'ere sometimes, in disguise." The boy introduced himself back. "I'm Rodney. Kind of the lowest of the low. No parents. So I learned how to stick up for myself without 'em."

"You're pretty good at that." Arald noted.

Rodney grinned. "Thanks. You're not so bad yourself. How'd a cushy-lifed nobleman like you learn to fight like that?"

Arald liked Rodney even more - he wasn't afraid to speak his mind, but he wasn't mean. Arald grinned back. "I have an older brother. It goes with the territory."

Rodney actually laughed at that, then stuck out his hand abruptly. "Friends?" He asked.

Arald blinked. The word was...unfamiliar. He knew what it meant, but the concept hadn't occurred to him in a while. "Friends?" He asked.

Rodney's face fell a little, thinking he'd made a mistake. "Well...I mean...I saved your bacon, you saved mine. That's what friends do, right?"

Arald's face broke out into a slow smile. "I guess it is." Rodney's new friend almost looked shy for a moment as he added, "I've never really had a friend before."

"Me neither." Rodney admitted. "I guess it's a first for both of us."

Arald laughed at that and shook Rodney's offered hand. "Friends, then."

Rodney grinned. "Friends." He confirmed. "Where were you headed?" He asked.

Arald made a vague motion in the direction of the Ranger's cabin. "I was on my way to see Ranger Pritchard." He explained.

The grin slid off Rodney's face like water off a duck's feathers.

"The Ranger? Why'd you want to see him?" Rodney asked suspiciously. "Their sort's black warlocks. Not honest, how they creep about with their magics, always knowing everyone's business."

"Rangers aren't _warlocks_." Arald scoffed. "They're the King's men. They're brave and honest and good folks...even if they are a bit intimidating." An idea occurred to him suddenly, and his brown eyes lit up.

"Why not come with me to see him? You can meet him and see for yourself." He offered.

Rodney's eyes narrowed, as if looking for some trap Arald was laying. Arald repressed the urge to scowl. He wasn't his _brother_ , he didn't trick people for his own amusement. He didn't trick people at all, as a rule.

"I promise not to let him turn you into a toad." Arald added, a trace of sarcasm creeping into his voice.

Rodney couldn't help but snort. "No, just a rat. All right, I'll come. But if he starts making potions or muttering spells, I'm gone." He warned.

"He won't start making potions." Arald promised."Or muttering spells. Now, muttering about paperwork, I can't promise." The joke about paperwork made a slight whistling noise as it flew over Rodney's head, but Arald failed to notice, as friends often did. "C'mon, the cabin's this way."

* * *

Ranger Pritchard Springer was, true to form, complaining quietly to himself about having to go through all these reports to figure out what was going on where in what fief and who was doing what about it. He didn't like it. But it could be useful. So he did it.

Chester's soft nicker grabbed his attention as quick as the clash of swords and battle-axes, and he almost gave himself whiplash glancing at the door before his mind caught up with his reflexes.

_Chester nickered, no alarm. Not an immediate or obvious threat._

Almost as soon as he had that thought, Pritchard heard snatches of conversation. One of the voices he recognized - Arald, Baron Peyton's second son.

 _Should have been his first,_ Pritchard thought sourly, recalling Arald's unpleasant older brother Norton.

"...will be fine." Arald sounded equal parts exasperated and amused with his companion.

"We're gonna get turned into _toads_." His companion, judging by the voice, was a commoner boy of age with Arald.

"We are not. You'll see. He's...strange...but he's got the best interests of the kingdom at heart." The corners of Pritchard's mouth twitched upwards. High praise from the boy who spent ninety-five percent of the time he spent in Pritchard's company staring at him wide-eyed.

Arald's companion made a skeptical noise in his throat, but one of them knocked a few moments later. Pritchard crossed the four steps of floor to the door and pulled it open, grinning at the two.

Arald looked a good deal more nervous than he usually did - and he was dressed in peasant clothes - and his companion looked generally wary. If it hadn't been for the obviously worn and torn clothes and hair that bore evidence of sleeping in stables, Pritchard would have said he was a knight's son.

"Arald," he greeted, "what brings you here? And who's this?" He asked curiously, indicating the other boy.

Arald beamed. "This is Rodney. My friend," he added proudly, a little like a kid showing off a prize.

"A friend?" Pritchard's eyebrows shot up in mock surprise as he ushered the two into the cabin. "How'd you manage to come by a friend?"

"By running as far away from Norton as possible," Arald responded immediately. Pritchard snorted as he shuffled papers around to make room for the two at his desk.

"So you didn't answer my first question," Pritchard started. "What brings you here?"

Arald shifted uneasily. "You know about Mum?" He asked cautiously.

"I know she died, yes. A fever, wasn't it?" Pritchard asked, mostly for a confused Rodney's benefit.

Arald nodded, but didn't look to terribly convinced.

"You think something else is going on," Pritchard guessed.

The boy hesitated. "Well...it's just...it was awfully sudden...and she had an argument with Norton just before she got sick."

Rodney interrupted, eyebrows coming together. "Wait...Norton, your brother Norton?" He checked cautiously. "Heir t' the fief Norton?"

Pritchard raised an eyebrow. "Do you know another?" He asked dryly.

Rodney's shouldered hunched defensively. "Well...no," he admitted, before adding, "but there could be one!"

Arald proceeded to palm his face.

Pritchard shook his head and returned his attention to Arald. "So you think your brother Norton might have had something to do with your mother's death."

Arald took a deep breath, and nodded.

"I do."


	2. Suspicious Circumstances - Two Meanings

Rodney was having a hard time putting all the puzzle pieces together, simply because it _did not make sense._

What kind of person would kill his own _mother?_ The logic of the events simply didn't connect for the street orphan.

But something else did.

"Y'said your mam died after she got into an argument with Norton? All sudden-like -"

"Suddenly," Pritchard corrected absently. "Not 'all sudden-like'."

"...suddenly..." Rodney said slowly, glancing at Pritchard, displeased at the correction but unwilling to take it up with a King's Ranger, "after standing up to Norton? Of fever?"

Arald nodded.

Ranger Pritchard looked at the other boy with renewed interest. A new piece of the puzzle was surfacing, and Pritchard could sniff those out like a bloodhound. For years, he'd been trying unsuccessfully to work out some way to keep Norton from inheriting the barony, short of actually killing the boy (the King tended to look down on such measures). Now, finally, after five years, he was starting to see a way - if he could acquire proper proof.

 _And_ , he added silently, _keep it safe from Norton's web._

"My parents died the same way." Rodney revealed bluntly. "Two - no, three years back now. Dad had some argument with Norton - about money, I think - and he and Mam got a fever and died about a week later."

"None of your family members took you in?" Arald interrupted, surprised. That didn't seem right to him.

Rodney shrugged. "Mam and Dad'd made an enemy of y'brother. None of them wanted to take me in and risk getting his attention."

Arald frowned.

_Still doesn't seem right._

Ranger Pritchard was talking again.

"Do you have any way to prove this?" He asked, mind racing at the possibilities. Baron Peyton might not care much about a peasant worker and his wife, but he would care about his wife. If he could connect the deaths...

Rodney scowled. "You don't believe me?" He accused him angrily.

"I believe you," Pritchard soothed quickly, "but the Baron won't, unless we have good, solid proof."

"But you're 'is _son_." Rodney said indignantly, turning to Arald. "Won't he believe you?"

Arald shook his head glumly. "I'm his _second_ son. Norton was his first. And Father's completely blind to what he is."

Sometimes, Rodney thought cynically, being cynical had its upsides.

Heh...he was cynically saying that optimistically, there were upsides to being cynical, which was...he wasn't exactly sure anymore. Tangent over. Back to the story.

Arald was looking back and forth between Rodney and Pritchard. "So...what are we going to do?" He asked.

Pritchard made a dispirited shrugging motion. "There's not much we _can_ do right now," he admitted. "We'll just have to wait -"

"Just a moment!" Rodney cried out, sitting bolt upright in his chair. "You don't mean to say that you're going t' let 'im get away with it all?!"

"And what would you suggest we do?" Pritchard asked sarcastically. "March up to him and go 'oh, hello my lord Baron, how nice to see you - by the way, your favorite son is a psychopathic serial killer, but we don't have any proof beside the testimonies of two eleven-year-old boys'? Yes, I can imagine that would go over magnificently! If you like being locked in the _dungeon._ Idiot boy." He finished scathingly.

Rodney had shrunk back into his chair, eyes wide at the Ranger's sudden explosion.

"R...right," he stammered out meekly, refusing to meet the Ranger's eyes.

Arald had the courage to scowl at Pritchard, who sighed and slumped backward into his chair.

"I'm sorry, Rodney. But please understand my frustration - I've been trying to compile a case against Norton for the past five years. Now I've finally got a solid link, but no way to prove it."

Rodney nodded mutely. He didn't speak.

Arald poked his friend's shoulder, then looked at the Ranger. "I think you broke him."

* * *

Norton was not having a good day.

Snarling internally, he stalked the halls of Castle Redmont, searching for any sign of his younger brother. Arald was, infuriatingly enough, a fairly intelligent boy, but he was young, and Norton could usually intimidate him into keeping quiet. An image flashed before him of _little brother,_ shrinking away from him, eyes wide with fear as Norton recalled tales of _unfortunates_ who had made his life difficult and paid the painful price. A feral grin flashed across his face before his black mood reasserted itself and the thunderous frown returned.

 _The story of the mill worker, his wife, and their orphaned son was a favorite,_ he recalled, his dark humor offering one last parting shot before surrendering completely to the anger and paranoia that had ruled his life these last few days.

Arald, the _infuriating_ little _brat_ , had somehow figured out that Norton had caused the death of the Lady Cynthia. Norton didn't believe their father would take his word over Norton's, but if he somehow managed to acquire proof! That would prove disastrous, especially with that damn _Ranger_ already dogging his steps, waiting for the smallest mistake...

Luckily for him, he never made mistakes. He was the perfect killer, the perfect Baron - he could be, if he wanted, the perfect King.

Ever since he was a small child, Norton had known he was different than others. Better. He possessed the cold, calculating ability to get what he wanted, and the raw intelligence to see that _people_ were not as unique as Arald and other 'good' people would have him believe.

Another thing - 'good' and 'evil' were simply abstract concepts defined by one's position, personality, and outlook on the world. And as such, they had no meaning. The only thing that mattered was _power_.

And the best kind of power was the power nobody knew you had. Even better - the power that others _thought_ they had.

His position as the Baron's son and heir, coupled with his unique gifts and understanding of how the world worked made him the perfect candidate to become the ruler of his shadow empire.

There were only _two_ obstacles.

Ranger Pritchard and his young brother, Arald Trammel.

 _Wouldn't it just be so very_ convenient _if they found each other? A kindred spirit to whisper their treason to, a fellow 'clear-sighted' soul who only saw the ruthless side and didn't understand that it was that ruthlessness that made him perfect?_

The young man's smile was reminiscent of a vampire.

Norton was having an excellent day.

* * *

Outside the Ranger's cabin, Norton ground his teeth as the small, shaggy pony neighed loudly. Even the Ranger's stupid horse was against him. He made a mental note to do something about the kingdom's special forces in the near future. They could prove to be a nuisance - or worse, an obstacle, if they should get too uppity.

 _On the other hand, if they answered to_ him _instead of the King..._

A Ranger might be just what he needed, in the future.

Ignoring the bay pony's shrill whinny, he stepped smartly up to the door and knocked, lowering the hood of his traveling cloak and picking a mask out of his collection to wear. He settled on _outwardly calm, with worry-tension around around the eyes and mouth_. The image of a brother worried about his younger sibling and trying not to show it. He knocked politely.

The door opened to reveal Pritchard. The man was tall, for a Ranger, which meant he was only some inches shorter than Norton rather than close to a foot. Pritchard was thirty-eight, and had inherited the Redmont Fief from his mentor - _what had the man's name been, Carson? No, Carwyn, that was it, the Ranger Carwyn Blackwood_ \- after the older Ranger had died under...suspicious circumstances. Norton had needed to arrange the old man's 'untimely' demise after he'd discovered a connection between Norton and the string of bandit raids that had plagued the outer town.

His apprentice was proving to be equally troublesome. Surprise, surprise. But Norton had been careful since that _incident_. There was no way this Ranger had any solid evidence against him.

The Ranger in question was wearing a polite-but-cool smile as he let Norton into the small cabin and offered him a seat at the table. The desk was cluttered over with papers that had been recently moved.

_Doing paperwork...or making room?_

Springer did not offer him coffee. That was just as well. Norton hated the taste of coffee.

"So," Springer began, before Norton could speak and set the conversation on the correct path, "what brings the Baron's favorite son to my cabin?"

Norton offered a thin smile in return. "I was looking for my little brother, actually." He admitted, injecting worry and fraternal care into her voice and mannerisms. "He's been...out of sorts, lately, ever since our mother died. Jumping at every shadow, suspicious of everyone...he's taking it quite badly."

"He's young yet," Springer responded with a fatherly smile. Norton scowled inwardly at this. "They were very close, as I'm sure you're aware."

Meaning, _I know why you're really here._

Norton offered a rueful half-smile. "That's quite true. I hope he'll move on soon."

_If you know what's good for you, old man, leave it._

Springer's smile grew a few degrees colder. "I'm sure he will, Norton. It merely came as shock - to all of us. The Lady Cynthia was such a _strong_ woman, after all."

_I know what you did._

Norton forced a smile on his face as he fought down panic. He _knew._ This old, bastard Ranger _knew._ How did he know? Who had told? Who had made a mistake?

Someone, he vowed, would pay for this.

Then he shook his head and chuckled. "But I'm getting distracted. You haven't seen Arald, have you?"

"I'm afraid I haven't," Springer responded smoothly. "Have you checked the Battleschool? It's possible he went looking for you there. I don't believe he's aware of your arrangement with Battlemaster Fredrick."

Something else the Ranger knew. Norton briefly wondered if he would have to think of a more _permanent_ solution to the Battleschool debacle. It took up his precious time and energy, but it was a _requirement_ to keep up the masquerade. So arrangements were made.

These thoughts swirling around in his head, Norton stood. "I shall look for him there. My thanks, _Ranger_ Pritchard." He excused himself, striding to the door with a swish of his black traveling cloak.

_He knew._


	3. Suspicious Circumstances - Unfriendly Eyes

Pritchard let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding as he watched Norton's retreating figure vanish down the path.

"You can come out now," he called, turning towards the small room that he'd stayed in as an apprentice.

Arald and Rodney crept out of their hiding places and inched forward. Arald's eyes were wide with fear, and Rodney was pale.

"So that's Norton," he whispered, eyes darting fearfully towards the door as if worrying the tall, black-cloaked sadist would come bursting through the door and slaughter them all.

Pritchard nodded, taking a deep, steadying breath. "That was Norton." He confirmed, glancing at young Arald. "Arald, are you all right?" He asked, concerned.

Arald managed a nod. "Y-yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. I should get back - he won't be fooled for long." _If he was at all._

Pritchard nodded. "Yes - you should go," he agreed. "I'll take you both to the edge of town. From there, you'll be on your own." The two boys nodded and followed the experienced Ranger as he led them through the forest, dodging the well-worn paths that Norton would be using.

Soon, they reached the edge. Pritchard stopped them for a moment. "Come see me again when it's safer, both of you. We _will_ stop Norton. I don't know how, but we will."

Rodney looked hopeful, but Arald just stared at the ground. Pritchard raised an eyebrow.

"You don't think we can do it?" He asked, half-teasingly.

Arald shrugged.

"It's just..." he started dejectedly. "I mean, he has the Battlemaster and most of the Battleschool in his pocket, and the whole of Castle Redmont dancing like puppets on strings. What can the three of us _possibly_ do against that kind of power?""We fight fire with fire, and darkness with darkness." Pritchard answered. "He doesn't have everyone in his pocket, and those he does have already proven they have a price."

"What about blackmail?" Rodney asked.

Pritchard grinned. "I'm a Ranger, boy. I deal in blackmail and secrets on a daily basis. Nobody has just one secret."

Slowly, slowly, Arald's face broke out into a sly grin.

"We can beat him."

* * *

Two boys - ten, perhaps eleven years old - were going at each other with wooden swords at the edge of the woods.

One of them was black-haired, strong-jawed and dark-eyed with a blindingly white grin that never wavered, even when his companion broke through his guard and smacked him with his wooden sword. The other had red blonde hair and blue eyes, with a face that would be handsome in a few more years. It was a face that was not unused to smiling, but it was set and serious now, steady and unflinching, jaw tightening into a grimace whenever the other boy landed a blow.

Both boys were dressed in simple clothes — peasant clothes, work clothes. Their hair was dirty from the falls they'd taken, the dark-haired boy had mud across his face, and the fair-haired one had a bruise forming on his cheekbone.

In the shadows of the trees, unfriendly eyes watched them sparring. Eyes belonging in heads that were attached to chests and shoulders and arms and hands that held spiked clubs and rusty daggers.

Rodney yelped in pain as Arald scored a direct hit to the head. He retreated several steps, shaking the stars out of his eyes, and only just managing to bring his wooden sword up in defense as the other boy jumped in to press his advantage. They locked blades as Arald brought his wooden sword up to block an overhand from Rodney that would have cut his arm off had they been in a real fight.

Arald had the advantage in a straight-up strength contest, by sheer virtue of having more regular access to food. But that wasn't the point.

"You see them, right?" Arald ground out, bracing his back foot.

"I see five." Rodney responded, adjusting his feet to keep him from overbalancing.

"Ideas?"

Rodney jerked his head in a negative. The unskilled observer would assume he was trying to discourage a fly. The concealed Ranger watching from the trees knew that meant his new allies saw the threat and didn't know what to do about it without loosing the element of surprise.

He almost sighed.

Time to be a big damn hero. He made a mental note to rip them to pieces over this later. Young they might be, but circumstances required that they be able to take care of themselves.

* * *

Unfriendly eyes watched the two boys at play until they broke out of the blade lock with a powerful shove from the black-haired boy. Despite the redhead's best efforts, the shove sent him stumbling backwards, temporarily off balance. Moving with lightning quickness, the other boy jabbed at his chest and hooked a foot behind the other's ankle. The redhead fell flat on his back, staring up his nose at his friend's wooden practice sword.

As both boys broke out in grins and the black-haired boy helped the redhead to his feet, the owner of a pair of unfriendly gray eyes gave the signal.

In a rush, eight pairs of unfriendly eyes descended on the two boys, who wheeled to face them with fierce expressions and wooden sticks.

In the end, Arald gave two black eyes and a bloody nose, and received a black eye and three swords pointed as his chest for his trouble. Rodney gave one black eye, a bloody nose, and knocked out two teeth, and received a knife held to his throat for his trouble.

Arald jerked forward automatically at the threat to his friend's life, but a sword in the belly stopped him short, backing him up to avoid an unpleasant, drawn-out, and highly painful death.

"Right, boys," the leader started, drawling lazily as he watched the two boys — one surrounded by sharp pointy objects, the other held hostage with a knife against his throat.

He was a swarthy fellow, with cruel eyes, bad skin, and half-rotted teeth, who grinned as he observed the scene before him.

"Right," he repeated. "So 'ere's how this is gonna work. You, blondie — " he pointed to Rodney, who was holding very, very still, "are gonna get your throat cut open. No way around it. You, black-hair —" he pointed to Arald, who had taken an automatic step towards his friend "are gonna get punched around a little. Also unavoidable, but less of a tragedy." He grinned a rotten-toothed grin. "After all, at least you get to live, hey? If you're lucky, mind." He added.

Rodney growled angrily and started to step forward, until he felt cold steel, which had drifted just a hairs-breath away, against his skin.

Up in the trees, Pritchard nocked an arrow.

Down on the ground, the leader was talking.

"Now that we've established how this is going to play out — Mick, be a good lad and do the deed, would you?"

The man holding Rodney hostage grinned like a sharp and raised the knife, preparing to plunge it into Rodney's throat —

— only to have it fall out of limp, dead hands as a black-shafted arrow sprouted from his temples.

Rodney jumped away from the dead man, and lunged at the men holding sharp pointy objects in Arald's direction. Now backed by his friend, Arald immediately fought back as well.

Several more black arrows sang through the air.

Suddenly, there was nothing left alive in the clearing except two boys - ten, perhaps eleven years old - who stood in a circle of dead bodies at the edge of the woods.

One of them was black-haired, strong-jawed and dark-eyed with a face that smiled often, but wasn't smiling now, instead looking on in horror and what might have been fear. The other had red blonde hair and blue eyes, with a face that would be handsome in a few more years. It too was a face that was not unused to smiling, but it was set and serious now, as steady and unflinching as the man he would become.

"Can you just get it over with, please?"

Pritchard glanced back at Arald. "Get what over with?" He asked neutrally, pouring them all liberal amounts of coffee with honey mixed in. The last week had made them both much bolder in the Ranger's presence.

"The lecture. About what idiots we are and how we could have done things better." Rodney clarified, taking a sip of the coffee and trying not to gag. _Too sweet! Too sweet!_

Especially in Rodney's case, it would seem.

Pritchard sighed and sat down heavily. "I was going to wait until I was sure you two weren't going to pass out or vomit." He replied mildly, sounding very, very tired.

"We're not," Rodney promised, subtly inching his coffee away from him. Pritchard raised an eyebrow.

"Something wrong with my coffee, boy?"

Rodney went red. "Er — no — it's just —"

"Too sweet?" Pritchard prompted.

"…yes." Rodney admitted sheepishly.

Pritchard fixed him with a steady look.

Arald coughed. "So, about how badly we screwed up back there…"

* * *

Norton looked up as someone knocked on his door. Slipping one of the pieces of parchment in front of him into a hidden desk compartment, he called "Enter."

The door opened with the slight creak of old hinges. Arald entered, with nothing more than a bruise on one cheekbone to attest to the good money Norton had paid the bandits.

_"You are Ironfist, are you not?"_

_"What's it to a lordling like y'self? We're all the same to you, ain't we? Just scum on the bottom of ye shoe."_

"Arald!" he exclaimed, pretending to be surprised. "What happened — are you all right?"

_"Scum, yes. But potentially useful scum. And useful scum gets paid."_

"They're all dead," Arald whispered. Something in his voice — or perhaps it was his eyes — made Norton hesitate.

"Who's dead, Arald?" Norton asked slowly, the wide-eyed worry and concern belying the rising joy in his chest.

"Everyone," Arald murmured.

_"What're ye getting at?"_

_"I will set you free in return for your services."_

_"I'm listening, lordling."_

"Who's everyone?" He asked softly, crouching down so he was eye level with his younger brother. A sign of compassion, he'd learned.

Arald met his gaze, and the joy in his chest stammered a little at the coldness in it.

"The bandits. They tried to kill me. So I killed them instead."

_"I want you to find my brother when he's away from the town. I want you to kill anyone with him. I want you to scare him. And then I want you to tell me who he was with, and what he was doing."_

_"You'll set m' free for that?"  
_

The joy died a quick death.

...but at least he wouldn't have to pay Ironfist the rest of the money.

* * *

From his place in the shadows of the doorway, just out of sight, Rodney grinned as he listened to the exchange. Arald was _good._ He was proud to call him friend.


	4. Suspicious Circumstances - I'll Not Bow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning in this chapter for mentioned/heavily implied abusive older brothers.

Arald met his brother's gaze and tried not to crap his pants.

Norton's façade was almost, _almost_ perfect. But it was beginning to crack at the seams, and that scared him more than anything. When Norton began to crack, his emotions - oh, he had them, no matter how hard he tried to hide - came crashing down like a tidal wave onto whichever unfortunate bastard was nearest.

More often than not, that was Arald himself. He had a nasty scar across the back of his shoulders to prove it.

"Who were the bandits?" Norton asked.

Arald set his jaw.

"Yours."

It was a guess, but an educated one. What bandits, Pritchard had asked, would kill the poor, lowborn orphan ( _sorry Rodney_ ) but leave the Baron's son alive and free?

_Norton._

He seemed to be the answer behind most problems lately. The Loki of Redmont (his mother's sister had been a mythology enthusiast).

"Mine?" Norton asked, and the hairline fractures were widening. Arald thought he saw fear, and dark, vicious glee welled up inside him. He could make Norton - _Norton_ \- afraid.

It was a delicious feeling.

"Yours." Arald repeated.

Norton's composure was back, and Arald's confidence, so carefully cultivated over the course of the exchange, crumbled.

But he held his head high, like his father had always taught him. Like a knight.

Like a _Baron._

* * *

Silently, still dignified, Arald pressed a hand to his neck, never breaking eye contact with his violent - _psychopathic_ \- older brother.

_I'll not bow to you._

The older brother who stood in front of Arald now, the candlelight dancing menacingly across his face - _the windows were shut, couldn't have anyone witnessing his savagery_.

The older brother who held a knife in his left hand.

The knife stained with Arald's blood.

An _inch_ more towards his jaw and Arald could have died.

Norton flung the knife into the floor at Arald's feet. It quivered there, as if demonstrating the fear Arald would let himself show, as Norton stormed out of the room.

He breathed a sigh of relief and held onto one small comfort - Norton didn't know about Rodney. Rodney would be safe.

A soft footstep made him look up. Rodney stood in the doorway, wide-eyed.

"What happened?" He hissed, hurrying toward his friend. "Norton just swooped out like an overgrown bat -"

"I'm okay," Arald said reassuringly. "Just a bit shaken -"

"You're bleeding," Rodney interrupted, taking him by the uninjured arm and pulling him away. "What happened?" He demanded again, once they were out of the way.

"We sat down for a pleasant chat over a few cups of Earl Grey," Arald retorted sarcastically. Rodney gave him a hurt look, the one that said _I'm only trying to help_ with a layer of _Don't be a jackass_ underneath.

"Sorry," Arald apologized sheepishly.

Rodney dismissed the matter with a shrug of the shoulders.

"You should clean that," he said instead, nodding to the sluggishly bleeding cut on Arald's neck. "Don't look like it hit anything important, but -"

"Infection, yeah. Thanks, Rodney." Arald nodded and glanced around. "Which way did he go?"

Rodney's brow furrowed. "Norton? Left, I think."

It was Arald's turn to give his friend a _look_. His said _You are not being helpful right now_ and _Can you please remember properly?_

"It was left," Rodney asserted, raising an eyebrow in Arald's direction.

Arald broke out into a cheerful grin. "Thanks. We'll go right then." He started down the opposite path, then paused and half-turned back. "You can get out of here without being seen, right?" He asked doubtfully, wondering vaguely if he'd have to hide his friend in the wardrobe or something.

Rodney grinned - a real grin, all mischief and joking. "'course I can. There's a back way into the kitchen I used when I was a kid. Nothing to it."

"Yeah, you're practically a Ranger already..."

"Ah, shut up."

"You'd miss my common sense."

 _"What_ common sense?"

A sound rang through the corridors of Castle Redmont that had been missing since the death of Lady Cynthia.

The laughter of a young boy.

* * *

That evening, Norton was waiting for Pritchard as the Ranger came out of a meeting with Baron Peyton. He greeted him with a slight nod of the head. "Ranger Springer."

"Norton," Pritchard returned. "The Baron's free, should you wish to speak with him."

"As a matter of fact, I was waiting for you, Ranger," Norton corrected, straightening from his position leaning against the wall.

Pritchard lifted an eyebrow. "Oh really?"

Norton nodded. "Yes, really."

Pritchard looked amused. "Is this about Arald?" He asked innocently. Norton flashed a quick vampire-esque smile.

"Might be."

"I don't suppose you'd be willing to give the boy a little freedom? He's only eleven, after all." Pritchard's tone was conversational, but his eyes were piercing. Here it was - he was declaring his allegiance with Arald and declaring war on Norton. A shadow war, of course. But a war, nonetheless.

Norton bared his teeth - _fangs_ \- in a caricature of a grin. "I think we both know the answer to that."

Pritchard let a slow, ice-cold smile cross his face.

"Then let the game… _begin_."

* * *

_2 years later..._

"You just gave her the silent _how-ya-doing_."

"No, I didn't!"

"You definitely did."

"Don't know what you're talking about."

_"Boys!"_

Arald and Rodney looked up in tandem. Arald looked sheepish, and Rodney was trying and not managing it.

Pritchard rubbed his forehead.

It had been a long two years...

Pritchard's apprentice, a young man called Crowley who had turned the Anti-Norton Conspiracy Triangle into the Anti-Norton Conspiracy Circle, opened the door and stepped inside, letting it swing shut behind him. For a moment, he stood soaking wet just inside the doorway, and the three of them dived for cover just before Crowley shook himself like a wet dog, getting water _everywhere._

"It's raining," the sixteen-year-old apprentice announced (unnecessarily) as he emptied his boots into the wooden bucket situated near the doorway for that very purpose.

"I gathered that," Pritchard said drily, slowly straightening from his hiding place behind the desk.

Rodney, who had fared less well than Pritchard and Arald, stood up slowly from behind his inadequate cover, giving Crowley a kind of muted stink eye - the one friends gave. Two years was, after all, a rather long time in a boy's life. And he was a person who had declared him to be someone's friend minutes after meeting them.

"Do you have _any idea_ how long it took me to find a wearable shirt?" he complained, shaking his arms in a futile attempt to dry them out. "They don't exact grow on trees!"

Pritchard moved carefully around the table once he was certain no more assaults of water were forthcoming. "What happened to your face?" He asked.

Crowley's face was sporting a black eye, a cut on his cheek, and bloody nose that hadn't been there when he'd left the cabin before the downpour started. His normally open, youthful face darkened into a frown that would rival Pritchard's in a few years.

"Some towns-kids were talking trash about the Rangers," he explained, indignant at the slight to his beloved Corps. Pritchard merely rolled his eyes as he guided his hot-headed apprentice to one of the chairs and starting ministering to his various battle wounds.

"Did you get their shirts wet, too, Crowley?" Rodney complained. Crowley stuck his tongue out at the other boy. Arald watched the exchange with amusement.

Pritchard rolled his eyes again, in a manner quite representative of a teenager. "Boys..."

"Sorry Pritchard," the three chorused. Bonus - all three of them really _were_ sorry.

* * *

Three days later, the rain had cleared and the waters receded, leaving behind muddy streets and flooded riverbanks lining a swollen river. The flooding from the river had damaged parts of the town, and the people were scrambling to rebuild quickly and save their livelihoods.

Two teenaged boys - one with red-blonde hair, serious blue eyes, and the beginnings of acne, and the other with black hair and dark eyes that sparkled with laughter that could never be entirely extinguished - stood at the edge of down.

Arald turned to Rodney with a questioning half-tilt of the head. "Where should we start?"

Rodney only had to think about it for a moment. "The poorest houses. They're this way. Farmers with bad land, most of them..." Rodney kept up a steady stream of babble about the poorest of the poor of Redmont Fief, and Arald listened to all of it as he followed his friend to their destination.

"Here we are," Rodney announced finally. Arald's eyebrows nearly vanished underneath his untidy bangs. There wasn't much _here_ , save for a few half-collapsed houses and rickety animal pens.

"Let's get started. Where do we start?" he asked, deferring to his friend's greater knowledge of the townspeople.

Rodney was already moving.

"Mr. Porter!" He called, waving to a middle-aged man who was digging a rickety wheelbarrow out of the mud. At Rodney's shout, he looked up, his face splitting into a grin.

"If it ain't little Roddy! The missus 's been worryin' about you," Mr. Porter called back, pausing in his work to grin. "Who's this 'un, then?" He asked, squinting at Arald, who suddenly felt very out of place.

"This is Arald," Rodney introduced him. "He's my friend. Arald, this is Mr. Porter. He helped me out after my parents died."

Arald shook the man's hand as Mr. Porter grinned toothily. "Glad to know this lad's got a friend," he said sincerely, before looking back to Rodney. "What brings you boys down this way? Not much here now that storm buried us up to our heads in mud and slop."

"Actually, that's what brought us down here," Rodney admitted, turning serious. "We" - _and Arald warmed a little inside at being part of that 'we' -_ "came over to help people fix up after the flood."

Mr. Porter nodded slowly. "That's mighty kind of you. Mighty kind. We could use the help, true enough..."

"Just tell us what needs doing, and we'll do it," Arald spoke up, managing a smile.

Mr. Porter laughed at that, pointing a long, crooked finger at him. "I like you, boy!" He roared, grinning from ear to ear. "Nice and polite, this 'un is. Respects his elders, ey?" The last part was directed at Rodney, who went a little red (even if he grinned). "Well, if you're so keen, you can start raking out the pig pen..."

It was hot, sweaty work, and Arald's hands were red and raw by sundown. Other nobles might have complained. Arald was simply happy to have helped that little part of the village.

As the two were walking back through the neighborhood, an old woman sweeping debris in front of her house looked up. Her eyes narrowed when she saw Arald.

"Come here, boys," she croaked, setting her broom aside.

Glancing uncertainly at Rodney, Arald made his way over, Rodney at his side.

"You, boy," she started, eying Arald, "you're that Norton bastard's brother, aintcha?"

Arald shifted uncomfortably. "Yes...yes, ma'am."

The old woman looked at him for a long moment.

"You're made of better stuff than he."


	5. Chessmasters - In Too Deep

It had been a week since the flood, and the reconstruction of the town had gone faster than Rodney had initially thought.

"The damage isn't as bad as it could have been," he'd told Arald while walking back to the Ranger's cabin after a hard day's work clearing fields, helping repair wheelbarrows, and fixing pens. "When I was ten we got that monster flood - you remember?"

Arald remembered, but he had difficulty seeing exactly _how_ the damage could have been worse. Having grown up in a castle, he still hadn't quite registered that most people lived in wooden huts and the walls were much less durable than those of castles. He could guess he was missing _something_ , though, and since he didn't want to look like an idiot, he kept his mouth shut.

"How much longer do you think it'll take to finish rebuilding?" Arald asked, dodging around a gnarled tree root.

Rodney made a face as he tried to calculate. "I dunno. Most of the big damage should be fixed - you know, pens, walls, doors, that kind of thing - but most people are pretty much constantly repairing their tools. Wheelbarrows and other bigger things might still being patched up..."

Arald listened, trying to put what Rodney was saying onto paper - figuratively speaking, because as talented as Arald was, he couldn't write up a complicated document and walk through the forest without running into things at the same time.

"So what you're saying, essentially," Arald summed up, "is that we've got about two weeks left of work to do before the damage is as fixed as it's going to get."

Rodney faltered a little. "Well...yes. But it sounds more impressive when you lay it all out like I did."

"No, it makes you sound like you enjoy hearing yourself talk," Arald corrected, nudging his friend to get him moving again. Then he reconsidered. "Well, it _can._ I suppose if you say it right it could sound like you were just thinking aloud. Still not good for a speech," he added as an afterthought.

"A speech," Rodney repeated, utterly deadpan.

Arald gave him the stink eye. "My brother never stops monologuing, and my father has to talk for an hour at every semi-formal meal we have. I've heard _plenty_ of speeches."

Rodney shuddered. "Suddenly I'm glad I'm not a nobleman..."

Arald grinned. "But you're my friend. Which means I'm dragging you to every single speech just so I can have someone to suffer with me."

_"What?!"_

* * *

The two were still bickering when they reached Pritchard's cabin. It had become a kind of unofficial meeting ground for the group - which consisted of Pritchard, Crowley, Rodney, and Arald.

Arald knocked on the door, waited for a count of twenty (Pritchard's idea, but then wasn't everything?), then pushed the door open and went inside. Neither Pritchard or Crowley were there, but that wasn't unusual. The two were often away, either training or dealing with one of the fief's many problems. Pritchard believed everything was Norton's fault, directly or indirectly, but Arald had his doubts that even one man - even his older brother - could cause so much havoc.

Arald grabbed his cloak from where he'd stashed it, and Rodney slung his bag over his shoulder. Thanks to Pritchard and Crowley, he was living a little better, in exchange for helping out around the cabin. Arald also smuggled his friend what he could, telling him to consider it payment for helping out the fief when Rodney's pride got in the way. With their combined efforts, Rodney had managed to claw his way up to poverty level (lack of a proper place to sleep notwithstanding).

"You coming again tomorrow?" Rodney asked, as the two friends headed out the door, taking care to close and secure it behind them.

To his surprise, Arald shook his head. "No, I won't. Norton's been locked up all week over his _correspondence_ \- if I'm right, he'll ask me to take them down to the Couriers. I suppose regular mail isn't good enough for him and his letters." Arald smirked. "Then again I wouldn't trust my bribery to the mail either."

"Think about that a lot, do you?" Rodney asked dryly.

"Spend enough time around Norton and you start thinking about how to subvert everything," Arald responded. "But I thought I'd take the opportunity to scope out the Diplomatic Service, see who's in his pocket and how deep they are."

Rodney considered it. Now that Arald mentioned it, it seemed like a good idea. "What should I tell the others? They've got used to seeing you around."

Arald shrugged. "I have no idea. Maybe Pritchard will know."

Rodney nodded thoughtfully. "I'll ask him. Come to think of it, if other folk know that Norton's making you run his errands for him..."

"...they might start to distrust him and we'll loose what support we have."

"Support for what, exactly?"

Both boys jumped as the Rangers seemingly materialized behind them.

Rodney recovered first. "Hi, Crowley," he said cheerfully. Crowley grinned back.

Pritchard just looked at the three boys. "Support," he said eventually, "for Arald and whatever anti-Norton movement we put in place. If the people don't like their ruler, they're less likely to try and keep him on his throne."

"You know, Redmont doesn't actually have a throne. We're a fief, not a kingdom." Arald pointed out.

Pritchard glared at him. "My point," he said, very precisely, "still stands."

* * *

Arald's hunch regarding Norton had been right. His older brother had cornered him early in the morning and 'asked' (meaning, demanded politely) Arald to take these down to the Couriers. Discretely.

Arald's suspicions that Norton had caught on to his 'disguised as a commoner' trick were all but confirmed.

So here he was, walking through the upper town with Norton's 'correspondence' tucked securely beneath his coat. By suggestion from Pritchard, Arald also had a parchment and ink to write copies of anything interesting he found in the letters - if he could look at them without anyone suspecting a thing.

Young boys were very good at unobtrusive, even ones not destined for the life of a Ranger. Even ones destined to be the resident peacock of Redmont. Particularly ones with less-than-perfect families.

And so, when he managed to duck away to peruse his brother's _correspondence,_ he did so successfully.

Most of the letters were sealed, and the packages were tied with knots that Arald couldn't make heads or tails of. He wrote down anything he could think of about them all the same. One letter was tied with a simple string, however, and Arald jumped on the opportunity.

With fumbling fingers, Arald untied the string and unrolled the parchment.

_Ferdinand -_

_I see the point you made in your last letter, but here is my counterargument. While force is inarguably useful for obtaining immediate results, the end result is that the masses will, depending on the target, hate us. If they fear us as well, production will not be harmed, but it is better to be feared_ and _loved, at the end of the day. Fear to keep them in line, and love to keep the fool-brave few from starting some misguided attempt at treason._

_Think on it._

_\- Samedi_

Arald read quickly through the letter, then pulled the necessary materials out of his bag and quickly scribbled down a copy for Pritchard and Crowley to read. Then he quickly re-tied the simple knot that had held the original note together and replaced it in the bundle Norton had given him.

He slipped out the alleyway looking no different than when he had slipped in _._ From there, it was a short distance to the Couriers' building.

He knocked on the door (routine), and was let in by a different person than last time. This wasn't unusual, since new apprentices often watched the door, but the girl was beautiful enough that Arald did a double take.

"Hello," she said, smiling. "You're Arald, aren't you? Lord told me to keep an eye out for you. I'm Pauline."

"Nice to meet you Pauline," Arald stumbled a little, but recovered with impressive speed. "Yes, I'm Arald. My brother sent me to see Lord Rafe?"

"Right this way, then." Pauline said with a smile.

Pauline led Arald a short distance to the Head Courier's office and showed him in before returning to her post at the front door.

Arald knocked.

"Come in!"

Arald pushed open the door to reveal the familiar office - smaller than most held by officials of high position, but the decoration left little doubt that the inhabitant was _quite_ well off.

Lord Rafe himself was seated behind the large oak desk that dominated the room. The Head Courier was large and bouncing and didn't look like the brightest plate on the table, but he was Head Courier, and nobody got that position by being stupid. And, Norton trusted him to handle important _correspondence_ (Arald really hated that word), and Norton did not suffer the stupid.

"Arald, my boy! Good to see you again. Ah, are those from Norton? Yes, leave them there - no, next to the stack of books, please - thank you, lad!"

Arald smiled and turned to go, then paused as something appeared to occur to him. "Lord Rafe?" he asked experimentally.

Lord Rafe looked up. "Yes, Arald?"

"Have you spoken to my brother lately? He's been acting odd, so I was hoping..." Arald trailed off, going a little red in the face.

Lord Rafe went very still for a heartbeat. Then two. Then -

"No, I'm afraid I haven't, my boy."

Lord Rafe smiled apologetically, back to normal.

Arald nodded and ducked out the door. Maybe Crowley or Pritchard could get more out of him later.

In the meantime, he needed to get back to the castle to avoid his brother suspecting anything was wrong.

Smiling a farewell to Pauline, he headed out the door, mulling over what he'd learned and what he'd observed.

As he climbed the stairs to his chambers, everything he was risking, everything that was resting on his shoulders, just from taking a walk, crashed down on him like a ton of bricks, and he wondered if he wasn't in too deep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ferdinand is a codename, just like Samedi. I took them from the stories of Ferdinand the Bull and Baron Samedi.


	6. Chessmasters - Scales of Conflict

Rodney didn't like the idea of Arald going off on his own (especially into what could be a den of Norton's men), but he really didn't have much of a say in matters. When Arald got an idea into his head, it was near impossible get him to change his mind.

(The fact that Norton had ordered Arald to run the errand for him was of no consequence. Rodney would run him through if he tried to get hold of his friend for not following orders, laws regarding regicide - baronicide? - be damned).

So the next day when he went to help the other people of Redmont rebuild, he was a trifle distracted throughout the day, glancing nervously towards the castle and the upper town and wondering what his friend was doing.

The people around him seemed to sense something was wrong. The baker's daughter slipped him an extra roll. The old leatherworker's widow, Mrs. Burrige, passed him a couple pennies when he finished clearing the mud and debris from her doorstep. The Harringtons, a farming family he'd known since he was a kid, gave him a new cloak (well, old and patched and threadbare to them, but brand-spanking-new to him). He smiled and thanked them all, like his mother had taught him before she'd died.

Thinking of his mother - and her death - brought him back to the question of Arald. The years had left no doubt in Rodney's mind that Norton Trammel was responsible for the mysterious illness that had claimed both his parents and his younger brother.

Renly. Three years his junior, he'd caught the same sick - _illness,_ he reminded himself, Ranger Pritchard could be very particular about talking right, and it was so easy to slip back into old habits - that had killed his parents.

He had a personal stake in taking down Norton. Maybe even more than Arald.

* * *

It wasn't until the end of the day that he got the opportunity to explain where Arald was (the Rangers had been very insistent he do so - something about gaining sympathy). Mr. Porter had paused in his work freeing his part of the barn from river debris to ask Rodney "were his friend was at."

Involuntarily, Rodney's eyes jumped towards the castle, even if neither of them could see it from where they were.

"Norton had a job for him," he said, maintaining a perfectly neutral tone and pretending he didn't notice the slight waver in his voice when he spoke.

Mr. Porter's eyebrows shot up in surprise, then furrowed in an interesting combination of suspicion and worry. Worry won. "Your friend all right?"

Rodney glanced in the direction of the castle again. "He'd better be," he said shortly, "or I'll kill him."

_And Norton. And whoever else is responsible._

The old man grinned. "He's lucky to have a friend like you, Rodney."

Rodney tried to smile. "Yeah," he muttered. "I guess so."

_And I'm lucky to have a friend like him._

* * *

Arald wasn't at the Ranger's cabin at the end of the day. When Rodney arrived, Crowley was pacing the length of the main room, chewing on his upper lip. As soon as the younger boy stepped through the door, the Ranger's apprentice turned and practically pounced on him for news.

"Did you see Arald? Is he okay?"

Rodney shook his head. "I haven't seen him. I just came back from helping repairs in the village." There was a tense silence between the three of them, finally broken by Pritchard.

"I'm sure he'll be fine. If nothing else, Norton won't dare to move against him until he's found a powerful ally to get him out of trouble." The Ranger smiled grimly. "Which he won't. Crowley's done well to make sure of that." The young man flushed with pride and grinned at the praise.

Rodney raised his eyebrows. "How'd you manage that?" he asked.

"Just...spread some rumors around to the other fiefs, is all." Crowley's grin widened and took on a dangerous edge. "Some particularly _nasty_ rumors."

Rodney wasn't going to ask what the rumors were. This was probably a wise decision, because as open-minded as the general Araluen populace was, certain things were still frowned upon.

(Of course, Crowley told him anyway, and Rodney nearly choked on his coffee).

* * *

Rodney could tell the news Arald brought back wasn't good the moment he walked in the door. He wasn't a politician - Arald and Pritchard's discussion might as well have been Gallican for all he understood - but he wasn't stupid. Some might argue that he wasn't a politician _because_ he was smart, but that was beside the point.

At Pritchard's urging, Arald had recounted everything he could remember (which was a lot) about the Diplomatic Service. The Ranger had interrogated him for what seemed like hours on the Head Courier (what was his name? Lord Rafe, yes, that was it), on the smallest of things, and somehow the discussing had turned to the Battlemaster before Rodney drifted off and woke up the next morning rather embarrassed and with a very sore neck.

"Accepting help - or even asking for it - is nothing to be ashamed of, lad. How many times do I have to tell you that?" Pritchard scolded, exasperated, as he pushed a hot cup of coffee across the table to the young boy.

"Always one more time," he said wryly. Crowley, sitting next to him, snorted.

"That goes for you too, boy," Pritchard said sharply, looking at his apprentice. "And it applies to your temper as well."

The corners of Rodney's mouth twitched. Crowley still had yet to learn to reign in his temper. Rodney privately thought he'd manage it somewhere around the point he became Battlemaster. Also known as - _never_.

Pritchard and Crowley were bickering gently as Rodney finished his coffee and pulled on his cloak from the Harringtons. He had one foot out the door when the Ranger's voice stopped him.

"Do you have somewhere to be, Rodney?"

Rodney froze, old instinct taking over. "Umm...no, sir. Nowhere to be."

Pritchard managed not to roll his eyes. "I'm not going to bite, Rodney."

"Just bark - a lot." Crowley contributed, earning himself a gentle smack on the back of the head. But the Ranger's mind was racing. The situation with Norton would come to a head quickly - and there was no telling exactly when Norton would make his move. He was still too entrenched in the political world of Redmont Fief for Pritchard (or indeed, Crowley or Rodney) to make the first move. Arald, perhaps, could do something, but Pritchard was hesitant to risk the boy's life - because if Arald did do something, Norton could very well brand him traitor and have him executed.

Besides, despite everything that had happened, Arald and Rodney were still just boys, and Pritchard didn't plan on endangering them any more than absolutely necessary.

But despite the Ranger's best efforts, Rodney had been working on the beginnings of a plan. A very risky, very dangerous, and very rewarding plan, involving Battleschool and a certain Sir that was deep in Norton's pocket...

* * *

That evening, Rodney was being unusually quiet. Crowley, who's work had finished for the day, was also uncharacteristically unobtrusive.

The two friends were plotting.

Rodney had always kept a keen eye on the Battleschool - wishful thinking, he knew, but he couldn't help but hope - and Crowley had a Ranger's cunning. Together, they were piecing together a plan that, if they were lucky, could tip the scales of the conflict.


	7. Chessmasters - Snake of Redmont

**Chessmasters**

_**The Snake of Redmont  
** _

It was a very simple plan, and it had exactly three steps - get in, get dirt (sorry, _incriminating evidence,_ Pritchard must be rubbing off on them) on Norton, and get out. Nothing fancy, nothing risky - well, not unnecessarily so - and plenty of room for improvisation. Because that always worked out so bloody well for everyone.

"Are you sure about this?" Rodney whispered to Crowley, eyeing the Battleschool with trepidation. He'd always dreamed of walking through those grounds, but this isn't quite what he'd had in mind.

 _As I'll ever be,_ Crowley thought, but just nodded. "I'm thure," he confirmed, avoiding using the _s_ sound because, as Pritchard had drummed into him during his near-constant lessons in espionage, stealth, and trickery, _s_ sounds were most likely to be heard. In other words, talking like you had a lisp was good for not being noticed.

Rodney breathed out slowly. "All right," he said quietly. "Let's go then. Time to get rid of the slimy Battlemaster."

Crowley grinned. "Thee? You'll do fine. Leth go."

The two boys crept down the slope. Rodney had gotten slightly less stealthy over the years, turning from a sly street rat into a less-sly townsperson who didn't need to steal food to survive. That was Crowley, Pritchard, and Arald's fault, actually - that, and the fact that thirteen year old boys were as a rule bigger than their eleven year old counterparts.

But it was a steadfast rule that nobody went into enemy territory without backup, and Crowley's stubbornly independent streak refused to get Pritchard involved (because the plan was stupidly risky and he would definitely say 'no', thought Crowley), and Rodney's pit-bull-big-brother mode was activated in regards to his not-actually-brother-but-might-as-well-be-brother Arald; therefore that option was not, in fact, an actual option.

So it was them, and them alone, who were responsible for what would come of this. It was a fact they would both curse and celebrate in the months, years, and decades to come. But for now, they could know none of this.

And as the escapade began, and the strings of fate began to dance.

* * *

The Battleschool grounds were deserted. It was surprising - Rodney and Crowley had been expecting some sort of guards to be patrolling, but nobody was about. Crowley's paranoia began to rear its head, but Rodney was simply thankful that their escapade was turning out to be easier than they had anticipated.

Of course, anybody who's ever done anything like this knows that this is a setup waiting to happen, but they were young and a bit foolish (well, a lot foolish), so we'll forgive them this oversight.

So they plunged forward and slunk further into the seemingly-deserted Battleschool, eyes wide and ears straining for any sign of an approaching guard.

 _Where are the guards? I thought there would be guards..._ Crowley wondered, his paranoia cranking up another notch.

But there were no guards. No matter how deep into the Battleschool the pair went, there were no guards. Alarm bells were beginning to start shrieking in Crowley's head, but the potential gain was too great. He kept silent.

Five high-strung minutes later, Rodney and Crowley had made it through the expansive grounds - _had the Battleschool grown since they last saw it?_ \- to the central building where the Battlemaster spent his time when he wasn't otherwise occupied. As they crept closer, they heard voices coming from ahead. Rodney startled and made to hide, but Crowley grabbed his arm and shook his head. The voices were stationary - they were safe for now. Carefully, they crept nearer, until they could hear what was being said.

"...can't allow you to use my men so recklessly," one voice argued. It was old and rough, and very forceful. _The Battlemaster,_ Crowley mouthed, and Rodney nodded.

"I assure you, Sir Frederick, they would be perfectly safe. They need not even go beyond the lower town," said the second voice, smooth and conciliatory. Rodney's jaw clenched, and Crowley's eyebrows rose. _Norton._ It was definitely Norton.

"Be as that may, what you are proposing comes close to treason, _Lord_ Norton," Sir Frederick said. His words were accompanied by the scrape of chair legs against a wooden floor, and the sound of heavy boots pacing the floor. "Are you sure about this? After all, your brother is only young."

"Not so young as you might think," Norton argued. "Nor so helpless as he leads people to believe. He has guile, my little brother. Too much, some might say. It could very well be his undoing."

Rodney choked on an angry snarl. Crowley whipped around to glare at him, but the damage was done - they'd been heard, and the two of them bolted before the rapidly-approaching footsteps could open the door and see their faces. They heard shouting in the distance, but nobody was there to stop them as they fled into the night.

It was all too convenient, Crowley thought.

* * *

"You did _what?"_ Pritchard shouted, red-faced with rage.

After fleeing far enough into the night that they were certain they weren't being pursued, Rodney and Crowley had made their way back to the Ranger's cabin. When they arrived, they found a very angry Pritchard waiting for them.

"And where," he growled, "the _hell_ have you two been?"

"The Battleschool," Crowley responded, jaw set stubbornly. Rodney, sensing an impending shouting match and having no desire to get caught between two angry Rangers, edged sideways, out of the line of fire.

"And what were you doing there?" Pritchard pressed.

Crowley's response led to the explosion at the beginning of this scene.

"You did _what?"_

"I didn't have much of a choice!" Crowley snapped back.

"You could have told me," Pritchard snarled in response.

Crowley opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by Rodney's frayed temper finally snapping. The younger boy slammed his fist into the table between the two quarreling Rangers, startling them into silence.

"Enough! Enough fighting!" he snapped. "Arald's in danger, and here we're arguing about how we found out. Who cares? We know what Norton's doing, let's act on it."

Pritchard was still gritting his teeth, but he knew sense when he heard it. "Fine," he said shortly. "You're right."

"What are we going to do?" Crowley asked, the muscles is his jaw still jumping angrily.

"Now he asks me," Pritchard muttered under his breath, before responding. "We're going to let Arald know so he can be on his guard."

"But the castle's locked down until dawn," Rodney pointed out. "Nobody gets in or out."

"Then we wait until dawn," Pritchard said flatly, switching his glare to Rodney, who had to force himself not to step back.

"I'll go," Crowley volunteered immediately. Rodney kept quiet, knowing he'd be useless for this.

"No. I'll go," Pritchard snapped. "You two have done enough damage as it stands."

"Damage?" Crowley yelped indignantly, temper firing back up. "Without us, you wouldn't know what Norton was planning!"

Pritchard leaned over the table to look his apprentice square in the face. "You. Were. Seen. Norton knows someone overheard him - his plans will have changed! You might just have put Arald in more danger with your carelessness!"

With a glare at Crowley that by all rights should have burned through the young man's skull, Pritchard stalked out of the cabin and vanished into the night to wait for dawn.

Crowley slumped into his seat at the table and sighed, running a hand absently through his hair. Then he swore very vehemently.

Rodney agreed with the sentiment.

* * *

Arald woke up to the sound of knocking. Dressing hastily, he called 'come in' to discover it was Alicia, one of the servants, come to remind him that breakfast began soon, and his brother had specifically requested his presence.

_Well that doesn't set off all kinds of alarms, no, not at all._

Sarcasm was a Trammel family trait. A sense of humor usually came with it, but the latter seemed to have skipped Norton.

Breakfast was, oddly enough for the interesting circumstances. He wasn't poisoned, belittled, accused, or had anything else done to degrade his status or erode his standing with their father or the inhabitants of Castle Redmont in general. In fact, he was pretty well left alone. His father gave a typical short speech about the affairs of the kingdom. He also mentioned a rash of crimes that had afflicted both the lower town and - here was the interesting part - the lords and ladies of Redmont. Most of them were crimes that Pritchard had attributed to Norton, but several of the upper-class crimes were new. He filed away the information to relay to Pritchard later.

Then his father declared that Norton had an announcement to make. Arald tensed - this was never good. Never.

Norton stood, thanked their father (and wasn't it just hateful that they shared parents), and began to talk.

"As I'm certain you have all come to suspect, most of these heinous crimes perpetuated against the people of Redmont Fief have been orchestrated by one person - a brilliant, ruthless mastermind who revels in the suffering of the good and innocent."

 _Is this a confession?_ Arald wondered snarkily. Oh, what he wouldn't give for Norton to be telepathic...

"For weeks, the guards and I have been hunting down this monster, and finally, finally we have found him - this scourge, this _snake_. Good people, I ask you - imagine my shock, my grief when I discovered that the snake of Redmont was none other than my own brother - Arald!"

Arald's eyes widened and he turned to flee, but the guards blocked his way, and he was caught before he'd gone more than three steps.

* * *

Arald spent the first thirty minutes of his spell in the dungeons coming up with new and creative ways to insult his older brother, the guards, the intelligence and _preferences_ of both, and the family members of the latter. He also came up with several new and inventive suggestions for how they could spend their time. Some of his favorites were 'you can go and choke on your sister's spoon', 'useless fungal infection', 'warped, weasel-faced, cross-eyed, fat-kidneyed flap-dragon', and 'pompous two-faced sewer rat'. But there were more, oh, there were at least a hundred more. Arald had an extensive vocabulary, and he was extremely capable of combining its various components in new and interestingly insulting combinations.

(The other occupants of the cells were howling of laughter five minutes in.)

As he started to loose steam, the other prisoners had started contributing, so he spend the _next_ thirty minutes laughing madly at the others. A couple choice phrases that came out of _that_ were 'artless beetle-headed flax wench' and 'repulsive ignoramus'. Apparently, Norton had been going around imprisoning all the scholars in Redmont. (Oh, and don't forget 'you bowl of cooked carrots').

But even that level of mirth had die out eventually, and Arald had achieved a light doze before he was jolted awake by the sound of metal jingling outside of his cell.

Instantly, his mind flashed forward to the worst possible conclusion - and the most likely one. Norton had decided to just hang him and be done with it. He curled himself into a crouching position, intending on doing as much damage to Norton as he could -

"You're not going to break my neck if I let you out, right?"

_"Crowley!"_

"Hey," the apprentice Ranger greeted with a wide grin. "Long time no see."

Arald laughed in relief. "It's good to see you. It's...really good to see you."

Crowley frowned at him, concerned. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Arald reassured him hastily. "What now?"

Crowley unlocked the door and yanked Arald out of the cell. "Come on. We're getting you out of here before Norton has your head chopped off."

* * *

Rodney waited impatiently just outside the castle walls, his eyes straining to find any sign of Crowley and Arald approaching in the dark. More accurately, he was looking for Arald - Crowley could do two things that made him less important to look for: one, he could get in and out of Castle Redmont without much trouble. Two, he was a Ranger and therefore impossible to see.

He had been waiting for the better part of two hours by himself - although it felt like an eternity - when he saw a faint outline approaching. A few moments later, and it was very clearly his friend.

"Arald!" he whisper-shouted, grinning widely.

Arald's head snapped around to find his friend, and his face split into a wide grin. Crowley beckoned Rodney over, and the three boys crouched and made their plans.

"All right, here's the plan -"

"This isn't going to be like your last plan, is it?" Rodney asked suspiciously. Crowley threw him a glare.

"You heard Pritchard," Crowley muttered. "Which means, genius, it's not _my plan."_

"About this plan, whoever's it is?" Arald intervened.

Crowley nodded. "Yes, plan. It's very simple - you both hide in the forest until we get this mess cleared up."

Arald had an instant objection. "What do you mean, _both_ of us? What does Rodney have to do with this?"

Crowley merely grinned. "You didn't think we were going to let you run off alone, did you?"

"This isn't up for discussion," Rodney said, cutting his friend off. "Let's go."

Arald was still hesitating, but Rodney grabbed his wrist and yanked him forward. "Come on! We don't have all night, we need to get away from here."

* * *

It was just before dawn when the full realization of what exactly was going on hit both boys - no, boys no longer, they were _men_ now - like a crumbling castle wall.

Arald was not thinking of himself. He was not thinking of all the nights he would spend with no walls or guards between him and the bandits and the wild things of the forest. He was not thinking of the empty bellies he'd go to sleep with, or the scars he would receive. He was thinking of the people he had left behind. Of Marissa the maid, who had always been, loyal, helpful, and kind; of Donald the stableboy with his stuck-out ears and endless cheer; of everyone who'd helped him or even been kind to him - all of whom he'd just abandoned to Norton's tender mercies.

Rodney was not thinking of those friends he'd left behind. He had no friends but Arald (and perhaps Crowley). He was thinking of the people, the ordinary commoners who lived in the small huts around Castle Redmont, who survived on nothing but their own hard work, and how they didn't have anyone standing between them and Norton.

With those thoughts in their heads and hearts, they set about finishing their shelter for the night. Winter was fast approaching, and they had much work to do if they intended to survive.

Both of them had a stake in surviving. The fires of vengeance - and of justice - were burning brightly.


	8. Interlude One - The Outlaw Brothers

"...okay, but pompous, two-faced sewer rat?" Rodney asked, disbelief etched into his face.

Arald sighed. _You use_ one _unorthodox insult and they never let your forget it..._

In the earliest days of exile, Arald had taken his direction from Rodney. As time wore on, however, he took more initiative, making tactical decisions like "let's not go there, that's a good place to get caught" or "we need to be concerned about food, let's go to the place we saw a lot of small furry creatures a few days ago".

Speaking of food, eating had been a serious problem since the first days of exile. So far, they'd managed to stave off death by starvation, mostly thanks to Rodney reverting to his old ways of thievery and Arald actually paying attention whenever the cooks talked about the plants they could find in a forest.

But, as time wore on, Arald began setting up basic traps he'd picked up from Pritchard and Crowley, and Rodney got much better at stealing from the castle kitchens than he really should be. Part of this was thanks to a young cooking apprentice named Chubb that Rodney had befriended. Chubb was a hothead, but a good man, just three years older than the pair. Rodney had helped him out of a bit of trouble some months ago, and in return Chubb was now sneaking him food from the kitchens. Neither of them could shoot worth anything, so they stuck with traps and thievery. When all else failed, chivalry did too.

So they ate, by the grace of fat autumn animals and a certain foul-tempered kitchen apprentice who reminded them both of Crowley (and not just because of the red hair).

"Yes, 'pompous, two-faced sewer rat'."

And some things didn't change, no matter if they were in a castle or a cave.

But then the snow began to fall, and they found themselves increasingly cut off from the castle, the town, even the Ranger cabin itself, until they were entirely cut off from civilization with only themselves to rely on.

With their supplementary food supply dried up, the two had come dangerously close to starvation, catching just enough food in their traps to sustain the two of them. As a last resort, Rodney began to hunt small game - he might not be able to shoot worth anything, but as he soon discovered, he had an excellent throwing arm, and stones were abundant. Slowly, slowly, they pulled themselves together, Arald improving both his traps and their placement, and Rodney fashioning primitive spears from branches and stones.

In the end, they managed not to starve to death.

* * *

It was early in the morning - the sun had just risen above the horizon - when Arald stepped out of the small, shallow cave the two boys had called _home_ for the past few months. Rodney was snoring away inside, sleeping off the last round of watch. The outlaw son of Baron Peyton stopped just outside the covered entrance of their shelter and surveyed the area.

He looked nothing like the young boy who had fled the dungeons of Castle Redmont. The fancy palace clothes were long gone, replaced by the sewn-together furs and skins of various animals (mostly small ones). His skin was weather-beaten, and his muscles had grown and hardened into a lean and wiry strength. His face had the sunken look of someone who hadn't eaten a proper meal in recent memory, and there was a thin scar tracing its way down the left side of his face. But dark brown eyes still gleamed with energy as they scanned his surroundings.

The first signs of spring were beginning to push their way through the cold white blanket of winter. He could see a dark patch of grass growing a few meters away, and a handful of brave flowers were beginning to push through the snow next to Arald's foot.

"Hey there," he said quietly crouching down next to the flowers. It seemed like an age since he'd seen any real green.

The flowers, unsurprisingly, did not reply. He would have been rather worried if they had.

Straightening up, he glanced around again, and - like every other time since the first snows - saw absolutely nothing of note.

Since his escape from Redmont in the early autumn, Norton had sent out regular search parties to comb the woods for any sign of Arald (and by extension, Rodney). With the coming of the first snows, however, the rate of patrols had dropped drastically, before eventually ceasing altogether. Now Norton spent his days shut up in Castle Redmont, hoping his little brother died of cold or starvation.

Norton was a rubbish older brother.

Shaking himself firmly back to reality, Arald headed in the direction of the nearest traps - there were six, spread out around the cave and all within visible range. Often they would be empty, especially lately as those non-hibernating animals grew wise to the fact that the area around Hunter's Cave (as the locals had started calling it) was not conductive to a long and successful life. But sometimes, they caught an especially bold or stupid animal, and added it to the store pile.

The first few traps were, predictably, empty. The fourth, on the other hand, provided a small squirrel that would be good for roughly a mouthful. It wasn't much, but it was better than chewing on tree bark.

As he knelt in the snow to reset the trap, he saw a flicker of movement out the corner of his eye and turned his head to see a songbird flutter down through the branches and perch on one of the barren bushes outside his cave. It was tiny - smaller than the squirrel his trap had caught - and it piped a few notes before deciding there was nothing edible to be found and flying off again.

Arald finished resetting the fourth trap and moved on to the fifth and sixth traps. The fifth was, surprise surprise, empty as well, but the sixth had snared a surprisingly large rabbit. He grinned and freed the dead animal from the trap, inspecting the catch. The rabbit was fairly bony, not much meat on it compared to the fat autumn ones they'd seen hopping around, before the snows came (and they learned how to make proper traps).

Still, it was a better catch than their usual finds. He reset the trap and carried his prizes back to their cave, where he set about skinning and preparing the rabbit, setting aside the skin. The sound of cooking meat wafted through to the back of the cave and woke Rodney.

Rodney had changed less than Arald had. While the ragged beggar-clothes had been replaced by stitched-together furs similar to Arald's, and he was even thinner than normal - with already-prominent cheekbones sticking out like knives - the starved look had never really left him, and he'd always had the muscle beneath the knight-to-be appearance.

"Smells good," Rodney said, yawning. "Rabbit?"

Arald nodded, glancing up to examine his friend. Rodney's eyes were even more sunken than usual, and the dark shadows underneath were more pronounced. He frowned a little. "You should get some more sleep," he said. "You look terrible."

Rodney brushed off the concern with a wave of his hand. "I'm fine," he said, yawning again. "Besides, you don't look much better," he added, with a ghost of a grin. Arald rolled his eyes and muttered something, before returning to the stew bubbling over their small fire. "Stew again?"

"The same as every other day," Arald nodded. "Why, were you expecting roast pheasant?" he asked sarcastically.

"Well, if you're offering..."

(If you listened very closely, you could hear the sound of Pritchard rolling his eyes - despite the fact the eye-rolling normally makes no noise at all.)

* * *

Spring was approaching, and the forest was waking up. Eating became easier, but the fairer weather brought its own problems - especially in the form of other people.

Norton was sending out patrols into the forest once again, looking for any sign of his brother - _hopefully,_ he thought grimly, _dead and frozen, along with whoever helped him escape._ Nobody could escape Redmont's dungeons unaided, Norton had seem to that himself. Having an infamously inescapable prison proved an excellent bargaining chip. Some might call it blackmail, of course, but Norton preferred the term 'intelligent negotiations'. 'Blackmail' was such an ugly word, after all.

Oh, yes, he vowed, he'd find his little brother. And when he did, they'd have themselves a wonderful family reunion.

The quill in his hand snapped cleanly in two, and for a moment, he imagined it was his Arald's scrawny, infuriating, aggravating, _worthless_ neck.

A wonderful family reunion indeed. _With Mother invited._


	9. Outcasts - All Fall Down

"Get down!"

Arald didn't give his friend a chance to react before pulling him to the ground, resulting in an undignified faceplant in a bramble thicket - ow - as the sound of hoofbeats and clinking metal reached their ears.

Both young men froze in their places, pressed into the dirt under a bramble thicket, as the hoofbeats stopped just in front of them. Neither of them dared to so much as breathe when the booted feet of the rider hit the dirt in front of them. Both young men were also incredibly aware of the knives strapped to their belts.

The rider's boots paced in front of them, before circling around to the side. There was silence, then the unmistakable rasp of steel on leather, and Rodney's leg exploded in agony as the sword slashed downward, opening up his calf nearly to the bone.

Arald was on his feet at the sound of his friend's cry of pain, knife in hand. He lunged at the rider, and Arald's knife found itself embedded up to the hilt in the rider's eye. The rider dropped with a scream, twitched, and was still.

Rodney registered all of this in the back of his mind, most of his mental capacity electing to focus on the point of having just been _gorram stabbed_ and was now losing blood at an alarming rate.

Arald dropped to one knee beside his friend, applying pressure to the injury, attempting to keep any more blood from spurting out, and trying to ignore the painful gasping of Rodney's breathing. With one hand, he cut a piece of cloth off his sleeve and hastily bandaged the injury, the thick fabric slowing the loss of blood to seeping instead of a steady flow.

"C'mon," he grunted briefly, hauling his friend to his feet and slinging an arm around his shoulders. It would be slow going, but they needed to reach the Ranger's cabin - Arald wasn't a healer, he didn't know the first thing about it aside from _blood needs to stay inside the body._

This plan was promptly halted by the thundering hooves of an approaching rider.

It wasn't Pritchard or Crowley, the glint of sunlight off the rider's steel helmet told them that. Therefore, threat. The rider wasn't slowing down. Therefore, he was likely planning on running them over or stabbing them as he rode by. Rodney couldn't move out of the way in time, not with his leg sliced open and bleeding as bad as it was. So Arald reacted, flinging his friend forcefully out of the path of the charging rider.

But the action left him squarely in said charging rider's path.

His world was a confusion of dirt, hooves, and blood, then something hard hit the back of his head and the world went black.

* * *

Rodney snarled in pain as he landed on his wounded leg, but all thoughts of his injury fled when he heard the sound of hooves striking flesh and bone and saw Arald lying motionless in the wake of the rider. He made to stand, intent on either killing the rider before he finished the job or dragging Arald out of the way, but his leg shook and collapsed beneath him, unwilling to support his weight. The horse and rider wheeled about, and the rider dismounted, drawing his sword -

And promptly collapsed into the dirt as a black-shafted arrow sprouted from the back of his head.

Rodney had never been quite so happy to see a Ranger in his life. The Rodney who had waited for Crowley to come back from Redmont's dungeons with Arald in tow might disagree, but it was, at the very least, a tie.

Pritchard swung down from his horse - _Chester, the horse's name was Chester_ \- with ease, dropping lightly to the ground and crouching next to the motionless Arald as Rodney struggled to his feet, hissing in pain even as he fought through it because _he needed to know if his friend was all right._

"Is he...?" Rodney started hesitantly, limping towards the unconscious boy and the Ranger kneeling over him.

Pritchard looked up and shook his head. "He's alive, and he's not bleeding out." His eyes narrowed as they saw the blood flowing from Rodney's leg. "Sit down," he ordered, "before you make that worse."

Rodney sat down - not that his wounded leg gave him much choice in the matter. "Where's Crowley?" he asked, his brain finally realizing that the apprentice Ranger was not as his usual place at Pritchard's side.

"Keeping a lookout for any more of Norton's men," Pritchard responded briefly. Rodney nodded, and right on cue, a cloaked figure emerged onto the path, some meters away.

"We're clear. Nobody worth caring about within screaming distance - God, what happened?" Crowley broke off, staring at the unconscious Arald.

"Someone within screaming distance," Pritchard said briefly. "Get Rodney on Cropper. I'll take Arald. Head back to the cabin, then get Denise," he ordered. Crowley nodded, turning into the trees and issuing a short, three-note whistle to summon his faithful little horse.

Obediently, Cropper trotted out of the forest and over to Crowley, who scratched the horse's neck in thanks and turned to Rodney.

"Let's see if we can get you back to the cabin without Cropper throwing you off."

They managed it - although neither Rodney (who, to be fair, had lost a rather worrisome amount of blood) nor Crowley (who didn't really have an excuse) was entirely sure how they did.

Crowley deposited his bleeding friend on the bed in the side room and took off again nearly immediately, only pausing to loosen Cropper's saddle girth before sprinting at top speed for the healer's shop, kept by the widowed Denise Lacroix.

* * *

Denise Lacroix was the local healer for the common folk in the town surrounding Castle Redmont. She was responsible for the various tonics and remedies that the townspeople relied upon to cure basic ailments, as well as the local midwife and occasional dispenser of advice.

Denise was also an old friend of Pritchard Springer, and had patched up Pritchard and his apprentices (Crowley, of course, and Conner before him) more times than she could count. As a result, she was less surprised than she should have been when a young man in a Ranger's cloak burst through her door.

"Crowley," she said, frowning in worry and maneuvering easily around her counter to steady the boy. "What happened?"

"Rodney," Crowley gasped. "And - his friend," he added, changing his words at the last moment to avoid giving Arald away. "They're hurt -"

Denise's mouth set in a grim line. "Where?" she asked, releasing her hold on Crowley's arm and heading for her kit. "And how badly are they injured?" she added.

"Pritchard's cabin," Crowley told her. "Rodney's been stabbed in the leg, his friend was run over by a horse -"

"He _what?"_

Crowley made an impatient noise in his throat, and Denise slung her bag across her shoulders. "All right, let's go. Antoinette!" she called back.

A young girl appeared in the doorway to the Lacroix's house proper. "Yes, mum?"

"Watch the store."

Antoinette nodded and moved to take her mother's place at the counter as Denise followed Crowley down the path to the Ranger's cabin.

* * *

Pritchard, who had been moving much slower than normal in an effort not to make any of Arald's injuries worse, arrived at the cabin to find Crowley feeding Cropper an apple.

"You spoil that horse," he said automatically. Crowley looked up and grinned briefly.

"You spoil yours," he countered.

Pritchard shrugged lightly. It was true.

"Denise is inside with Rodney," Crowley added, anticipating the next words out of Pritchard's mouth. "I told her what happened."

"Good lad," Pritchard said, swinging down off Chester and turning to carry Arald inside the cabin before turning back to Crowley.

"I got him," Crowley assured his mentor, already leading Chester around back to join Cropper. Pritchard smiled briefly in thanks and pushed the door open with his shoulder.

Inside, Rodney was awake and coherent, listening to Denise talk as she bandaged up his leg. At the sound of the door opening, he made to sit up, only for Denise to push him back down again.

"Stay off that leg, boy," she warned him, before turning to face Pritchard. Her lips thinned when she saw the unconscious boy he was carrying, and she muttered something that she would not have repeated in front of Antoinette.

Rodney's eyes were fixed on his friend as Denise took charge, bringing the unconscious boy into the second room, out of sight before shooing Pritchard out with instructions to boil more water and stay out of her way.

There was silence in the cabin after that. Both Pritchard and Rodney technically knew that Arald would probably be fine, but considering the events of the past few months, they were entitled to stress over their friend's health and well-being.

"How's your leg?"

Rodney grimaced. "Still hurts. Not quite as much, but..." he trailed off awkwardly, uncertain of what words were supposed to come after that 'but'.

Pritchard's mouth twitched briefly. "I suspect it will bother you for some time," he began. "But you should be walking again within a few days, unless Denise says otherwise."

"I'm going to go stir-crazy," Rodney grumbled, and Pritchard snorted.

"Don't be so dramatic," he chided gently.

Rodney drew breath to retort, buttheir conversation came to an abrupt halt when Denise stepped into the room, causing both of them to look up.

"Is Arald going to be all right?" Rodney asked immediately.

Denise smiled at him, drying her hands. "Your friend will be most likely be fine," she told him. "He took a nasty hit to the head, but it doesn't look too serious. The other injuries seem to be most of the problem," she added, turning to address Pritchard.

Pritchard nodded. "That's good to hear. Thank you, Denise," he added.

"Who's Denise and what are we thanking her for?"

Rodney lurched off the bed, fully intending to walk or run to his now-conscious friend but was stopped by the simple fact that his injured leg wouldn't hold his weight, and would have sent him crashing unceremoniously to the floor (likely face-first) if Pritchard hadn't caught him.

"I told you to stay off that leg!" Denise barked.

"And I'm not listening!"

"Yes, _clearly,"_ Pritchard invertened, letting Rodney drop into a sitting position on the floor of the cabin, with his back against the wall. "Stay, damn it."

In the meantime, Arald had managed to lever himself into a sitting position and was now rubbing his temples.

"How do you feel?" Denise asked.

Arald looked at her askance. "I'm going to assume you're Denise. And I feel like I got run over by a horse."

"Nice to know your sense of humor is still intact," Rodney muttered.

Arald grinned briefly, then his face slid into a frown. "How's your leg doing?" he asked.

Rodney gave the flat look that said _'you're asking_ ** _me_** _this question in **these** circumstances?'_. "It's fine," he said shortly.

"So why are you sitting on the floor?"

"Don't get smart. You know I can't keep up when you do that."

Pritchard and Denise exchanged looks and shook their heads. Some things never changed.

* * *

After running a quick series of questions past Arald to make sure he wasn't suffering from any lasting damage (he wasn't), Denise turned to Pritchard.

"I should be heading back," she told him. "I left Antoinette in charge of the shop."

Pritchard grinned. "If she's anything like her mother, your shop is likely in very capable hands," he said.

Denise laughed. "Always the charmer, Pritchard. Send for me if anything happens. And you stay off that leg, lad, you hear?" she added, turning to Rodney, who nodded.

"Yes ma'am," he said meekly _._

Pritchard muttered something that made Denise smack him on the arm and caused Rodney's eyebrows shoot up _._


	10. Outcasts - Retribution

None of Arald's injuries had any kind of lasting effect, except to make him even more determined to bring his brother down. Rodney limped for several days, but his injured leg healed quickly, and within a week both young men were driving Pritchard up the wall again.

"Anything new?" Arald asked, as the restless teen seated himself at the table after several hours of restless pacing. Ever since their living in the woods had failed spectacularly, Pritchard had essentially confined them to the cabin - and both of them were climbing the walls, restless as they were. The two boys were so used to the freedom of the outdoors that the confines of the cabin were almost suffocating.

Pritchard's teeth clenched briefly as Arald's rather theatrical collapse into the chair grated the legs along the floor. "No," he said curtly. "Nothing solid." He slammed the report he was reading down on the table in frustration. "Nothing _useful_ ," he hissed angrily.

Arald, undaunted by the Ranger's frustration, craned his neck to see the report Pritchard had just abused. "Gorlan Fief...that's due east, isn't it?" he asked.

"Yes," Pritchard answered shortly. "Why?"

Arald shrugged briefly, then frowned. "Sounds familiar..." he mused.

"You'd have heard of it in whatever classes they make noble boys take," came Crowley's input from the next room, sounding exhausted and half-dead. Pritchard had drilled him relentlessly on his shooting and silent movement the day before, and as of this morning, the apprentice Ranger seemed to have come down with something.

"No, from somewhere else..." Arald replied distantly, trying to recall where he'd seen the name. "It was a while ago. Pre-conviction, post-flood..." he trailed off, staring at the wall as he tried to pull up the relevant memory. Pritchard watched him for a moment, then shook his head and when back to his paperwork. "If you figure it out, let us know," he said, as Crowley shuffled into the room looking altogether too gray to be healthy.

"Where's Rodney?" the apprentice Ranger asked, looking around. Pritchard opened his mouth to respond, but Arald got there first.

"Lower town," he said briefly. "Helping Miss Denise and Antoinette."

Crowley nodded, made to sit down, realized there were no available chairs, and compromised by sitting on the counterspace in the kitchen. There was silence in the little cabin for a handful of minutes, broken only by Arald pouring Crowley a cup of coffee. The apprentice Ranger accepted it with a nod of thanks and took a long drink before asking another question.

"How're you holding up?" he asked, staring at the younger man.

Arald merely waved him off, although he felt the stare rather unnecessary - it wasn't like Pritchard had been injured too. "I'm fine," he answered reassuringly. "Worry about whatever you've come down with."

Crowley raised a skeptical eyebrow, ignoring the second part of Arald's reply. "Really, now?"

The eyebrow and the response together prompted a rather impressive rolling of the eyes from Arald. "I'm _fine,"_ he repeated, exasperation creeping into his tone. "I got run over by a horse, not gored by a wild boar."

"If you'd been gored by a boar you'd be dead," Pritchard said absently, not looking up from his work.

"And I _didn't,_ which is my _point,"_ Arald said very precisely, turning back to the senior Ranger.

Pritchard grunted and rose to his feet. "Denise's place, you said?" he asked. Arald nodded, and the Ranger seemed to vanish into thin air, leaving the door to swing shut on empty air.

Arald grumbled something about Rangers that Crowley pointedly ignored. They sat in companionable silence for a while, and Crowley was even beginning to doze when the door swung open to admit a half-amused, half-cross Pritchard and a sullen-looking Rodney, who brightened somewhat to see his friend leaning against the wall, looking no worse for wear for the adventures they'd had during the previous winter.

Both young men had filled out their frames again, now that they had regular access to food with lessened effort. Arald, it should be noted, had developed a bit of a tendency to overindulge (even after Pritchard had stopped staring them down with those unsettling dark eyes of his until they'd eaten every crumb), but Pritchard didn't have the heart to correct him. Up until now, the boy had always been on the skinny side, especially since his mother's death. It was good to see him regain his appetite - although he'd rather the lad hadn't required a near-death experience to do so.

Rodney, on the other hand, had shot up several inches and grown much broader in the shoulder. He had always had the look of an aspiring swordsman, but now he could pass for a first-year Battleschool cadet if he tried.

The two boys carried out a quick, silent conversation based entirely around meaningful glances and eyebrow movements. Pritchard waited patiently until they were done (and carefully gave no indication that he knew what the conversation was about) before clearing his throat.

"If you two are quite done staring into each others' eyes," he said mildly, causing both of them to stare at opposite walls in embarrassment - _young men, always so easily embarrassed_ \- "the issue of Norton's power has yet to resolve itself, and we must decide on our next step."

"We could just shoot him," Crowley suggested idly from his position, still perched on the kitchen counter. Pritchard waved the suggestion off as the facetious product of frustration and sleep-deprivation that it was, but Arald jumped on it.

"Why not?" he demanded when Pritchard said it couldn't be done. "I've seen you and Crowley shoot you, you could kill him easily! All this -" he gestured angrily in the direction of the town "- could be over! People could go back to their normal lives, they wouldn't have to be scared of Norton and his overblown bullies any longer!"

"And what happens after that?" Pritchard snapped back. "Norton will be dead, Baron Peyton is already dying -" _Arald choked on the news, he'd known it, of course, his father had been in ill health for months but it still hurt to hear_ "- and you will still be a convicted criminal, incapable of walking the streets in daylight, much less ruling a fief. Without a clear successor to the Barony, there'll be chaos."

Arald deflated at that, withdrawing from the conversation as Rodney stepped up to fill the awkward silence, as friends are wont to do.

"So we need to _prove_ that Norton was really behind all the shi - _crimes,"_ he amended hastily at a look from Pritchard, "- all the crimes he accused Arald of. Right?"

"Sounds about right," Crowley raised, leaning forward so his elbows were resting on his knees and his chin was resting in his hands. "You got any ideas?"

"Have," Pritchard corrected absently. "Do you have any ideas. Yes, as a matter of fact, I do."

Rodney sighed in relief. "Well, good. Because I didn't."

"First time for everything," Arald put in with a brief smile. Rodney discreetly kicked him in the shin as Crowley turned to Pritchard.

"You do?" the apprentice Ranger asked eagerly, summarily ignoring the squabbling children on the other side of the table.

"Contrary to the Commandant's belief, I'm not entirely useless," Pritchard said dryly, causing Crowley to sputter indignantly about the Commandant's mental facilities and other shortcomings.

Pritchard grinned, quietly touched by his apprentice's defensive outburst. "Don't let the Commandant hear you saying that," he said mildly. "But I appreciate it."

Crowley beamed.

"So what's this plan of yours?" Arald asked, leaning forward. "More importantly, do you think it will work?"

"It will," Pritchard asserted. "It does not involve half-baked excursions into the Battleschool at night, after all," he added, with a pointed look at both Crowley and Rodney (the latter of which at least had the grace to look sheepish). Arald just looked amused, and Pritchard continued.

"Arald, the first part is up to you. You know the layout of Castle Redmont better than anyone here, so I'll need you to help me draw up a map of the castle - especially the noble's quarters," he added.

"Aren't there blueprints of the castle in the basement?" Crowley spoke up. Arald shook his head in response.

"They were all destroyed about a year ago," he said. "Part of his Snake of Redmont phase," he added angrily. One more crime he'd been framed for - attempting to burn down the castle. _As if a few torch-fires would have any effect against ironstone,_ he thought sarcastically.

Pritchard nodded. "That's the main reason, but with as much first-hand knowledge of the castle as Arald and I have, we'll be able to add in the most likely patrol routes, making it easier for you to move around." He frowned lightly at the cloak on Crowley's back. "If we have time, I'll see about getting you a different cloak. That one won't do you much good inside a castle."

"Even if he went at night?" Arald asked.

"Guards would be on higher alert," Rodney pointed out. "It would make his job harder. Besides, Norton would probably be in his quarters by then."

Arald nodded, conceding the point.

"Once we have that down, Crowley, it'll be your job to sneak into Norton's chambers and find any evidence you can that Norton was the one responsible for the crimes he accused Arald of. With that, we'll be able to take the case to a proper court - not the rigged crap Norton's put together - and get him convicted." Pritchard paused, glancing around to make sure that all three of them were following the plan.

"What about me?" Rodney asked. "Or am I just supposed to sit around, looking pretty and hope you lot come back?"

"You couldn't do that anyway," Arald put in with a grin. Rodney punched him in the shoulder.

"Actually, no," Pritchard said, staring at the two of them until they behaved. "Rodney, you and I will be the distraction, to give Crowley some extra time to find what we need."

"What about me?" Arald asked, rankled by the idea of sitting back and doing nothing while his friends risked themselves for his sake.

"You're the backup distraction," Pritchard said bluntly. "But if we don't need you, you'll help Crowley into the castle."

"I don't need -" Crowley started, but Pritchard clapped a hand over his mouth.

"Yes, you do. Arald knows the castle better than you, you will need his help." Pritchard had, over the course of the young man's apprenticeship, attempted to keep him out of the castle (and out of Norton's way) as much as possible.

Rodney opened his mouth to object, but Arald - perhaps guessing what his friend would be objecting to - cut him off before he could.

"I'll be fine," he said firmly. Rodney shut his mouth and nodded, muttering something that sounded vaguely like "better be" under his breath.

Pritchard nodded briefly in Arald's direction. "We'll begin the map tomorrow," he said. "The sun's going down soon, and I still have enough paperwork to get through that we could light a Skandian funeral pyre with it."

The three boys nodded and moved off to the side to allow the Ranger to work in relative peace.

Crowley sniffed and took another long drink of his coffee. He eyed Rodney, who seemed distracted by something. "So, Antoinette?"

"Shut up," came the sharp reply.

Arald stifled a laugh.


	11. Author's Note

I won't be finishing this story.

I'm sorry guys - I really am - but I just can't bring myself to write for this anymore. I went over the previous chapters, and...well, it's pretty bad. I wasn't a very good writer back then, and I can't dredge up the inspiration to write when that is what I have to go from.

So...I guess that's all I have to say, really. It was a blast working on those chapters, back when I was still learning what was a good idea and what wasn't - and this definitely helped with that. I still hold a soft spot in my heart for all these characters, and they may make an appearance in various one-shots or short stories as inspiration strikes - although there's no plans for that right now.

Thanks for all your support, guys. Best of luck in the world. 3

~ Dorano


End file.
